


Villains of the Moon

by orphan_account



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-23
Updated: 2012-03-23
Packaged: 2017-11-02 09:49:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/367676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But most of all, above all else, Stiles is <i>tired</i>. Or the one where Stiles barges over to Derek's place to vent, and Derek surprises Stiles in a way that he didn't know was possible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Villains of the Moon

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic in the Teen Wolf fandom. I hope it's up to par and is somewhat enjoyable! I also did not think that this fic would get so thinky, but I think it kind of fits the situation? I'm not sure. 
> 
> Thank you to Rosie for beta'ing this for me, you're a doll!

Stiles is pissed off, and angry, and just generally in a shitty mood. But most of all, above all else, he’s tired. He’s tired of _ it _ , of everything, and while most people wouldn’t think that mastermind geniuses like himself don’t need breaks, he does, he really  _does_.  
  
The thing is, Stiles isn’t a bad guy.  Or at least he doesn’t think he is  
  
Sure, he doesn’t fully apply himself in school, but  _ now _ that’s mostly because he’s too busy doing research for Scott and for the rest of the pack in order to make sure nothing goes wrong–and he’s kind of okay with sacrificing sleep over that, because they’re worth the bleary eyed days where everything seemingly blurs into one another–and he might not be the most attractive person out there, but there are other people like that, too, so he doesn’t let that bother him too much. He’s awkward when it comes to finding things to talk about that don’t call on his witty remarks and sarcastic comments, but he  _ tries _ .  
  
He tries and most of the time he fails, and if he’s forced to admit it under extreme torture he would probably say that it’s because he tries so hard that he probably doesn’t succeed, but he doesn’t really let that hold him back, either. He knows he’s nothing special, that he’s just a normal human being stuck in a town in California that is weirdly crowded with werewolves–though most of the people here don’t actually know it, which Stiles is fine with–and it just sucks.  
  
He’s so fed up with everything, that he thinks if he was some melodramatic lunatic (Scott) he’d probably curl up in his bed and sob into his pillow, or maybe do something horrible like  _ confide in his father _ , who has enough on his plate already, by the way. But he does the rational thing here, because Stiles is nothing if not rational on a good day, and reckless on a bad one.  
  
He’s feeling both in equal measures so he guesses this is why he visits Derek.  
  
Derek hasn’t changed so much as hone in on a part of himself that no one knew he had since the death of his uncle.  
  
Derek’s a lot more protective now (especially of Stiles, but he blames this on the fact that he seriously is the only defenseless human left in their little pack–Allison, as cute and innocent as she may be, is even  _ more _ equipped in battle than Stiles is, which, he really should be embarrassed about that, but can’t find the heart too. There’s something about her that simultaneously intimidates him and reminds him of a innocent little kitten) and he yells more, but this isn’t anything really new to them.  
  
And anyway, as far as Stiles knew, Derek’s lonely anyway, Alpha or not. He thinks that maybe Derek has always been lonely, even when he was surrounded by his family, though maybe not so much then. Derek always did seem to be grounded by family, whenever Stiles actually  saw him–it wasn’t much, even back then, because it’s not like the Hale house was easily accessible or anything–and it’s a comforting thought. They’re alike, in that sense, the reasons why Stiles feels like it’s necessary to bring cold chinese takeout to his father when he works late, because he  cares , because he knows that if he doesn’t, no one else will.  
  
So, Stiles and Derek have been talking a lot recently, more so than anyone that  wasn’t strictly part of the wolf clan was concerned. Which was fine, because it wasn’t like the amount of people Stiles could talk to were in high numbers, anyway. Fucking girlfriends, stealing away his best friend and being innocent enough not to even  realize  it.  
  
He’s not so sure if the relationship bothered him so much as it was that he couldn’t find it in his heart to hate her for it.  
  
When he gets to the burned down house that Derek has been rebuilding since after Peter’s death (“I am not moving,” Derek had growled, unmoving–hah, ironic–on the idea, and Stiles didn’t really blame him; there were some times when it seemed unfathomable that he would ever leave the house that he grew up in, containing his mother’s memories and all) he doesn’t even bother knocking.  
  
After all, Derek can smell him, and if he really wanted to stop Stiles he would have a long time ago. So he barrels right in and it hurts his shoulder more than he can comprehend at that moment, but he doesn’t care because the emotion is bubbling high in his chest and if he doesn’t find something to focus on, and soon, he actually might explode. Like the actually  _ successful _ concoction they cooked up for Peter–which Stiles had actually felt  bad about, still feels bad about, but he feels bad about everything, so maybe he shouldn’t look too far into it.  
  
He doesn’t need to know where Derek is, because he’s always in the same place, always locked in that room of his, one of the only ones that doesn’t need to be renovated at all, but probably will be anyway. Sometimes, when Stiles walks in, he’s working on that already insane body of his, like he’s mocking Stiles for being stuck with his lanky, awkward body that completely disagrees with how he needs muscle in order to defend himself. Other times, he’s just sitting on his bed, reading a book or writing something down in that weird, leather notebook he always carries.  
  
Stiles doesn’t know what’s inside, but he’s pretty sure it has something to do with family. And for that, he can understand.  
  
“Did you know,” Stiles says, almost on a chuckle, greeting Derek in the middle of his dilapidated house, in the middle of the woods, and seriously, he should probably be screaming bloody murder right now–because hello, blood-thirsty werewolf, meet delectable and young and kind of overall invisible Stiles–but he doesn’t really think his life could get anymore cliche. And anyway, Derek has really been the only person he’s been able to confide in recently. “I think when people look at me, they only see Scott.”  
  
Derek, who is reading some book, probably something involving the supernatural murder of a woman and the detectives that were trying to solve it–as Derek is nothing if not ironic.  Morbidly and sadistically so, but ironic nonetheless.  
  
The other wolves tell Stiles that it’s something he wouldn’t understand, that somewhere between the truly horrible writing and the predictable plot turns there’s something to treasure there. But personally, he just thinks they’re all sick, crazy motherfuckers.  
  
“What?” Derek asks, though Stiles knows that he knows exactly what Stiles said.  
  
Stiles doesn’t know  _how_ he knows, but he does, because Derek is never this purposely dense unless he’s alone with him.  
  
“I’m tired,” Stiles says, because he’s fresh out of witty remarks and stupid sarcastic comments; he just wants to be  heard . Sometimes, it seems like even that is too much to ask.  
  
The world, admittedly, likes to play a game that Stiles has since helpfully titled ‘Let’s See How Many Times We Can Ruin Stiles’ Life Without Death’.  
  
Derek raises an eyebrow. “Generally, when people are tired, they tend to fall asleep,” he tries for nonchalant, but Stiles can feel those alarming, jarring eyes watching his every move. Like Derek thinks he’s about to crumble on the spot into a blubbering mess of tears and a runny nose, and Stiles realizes this is because the werewolf is 75% sure that some variant of that situation is likely to happen.  
  
“Hilarious, really. Your sarcastic comments are much appreciated,” he retorts, though it’s weak, and feels like dead weight in his mouth.  
  
This catches Derek’s attention, and he sits up straighter in bed, his eyes even  more alert, and there is something comforting in the gaze, no matter how much it still scares him. The fact that this is a creature that can tear Stiles apart in reaction to one false move or statement is still kind of ultimately terrifying, especially because Derek looks like he wants to tear off Stiles’ head almost all of the time.  
  
“Are you alright?”  
  
His voice is tender in a kind of subtle way and it’s the last thing Stiles needs right now because he’s pretty damn sure he’s about to have a panic attack. One of those hasn’t happened in almost two years and in front of all of the people that are high on the list for that to happen in front of, Derek isn’t even on the list at all. He tries to get a grip, because while these last few months have been trying at best, losing your best friend to a girl is nothing like losing your mother, for good, for  _ always _ . Stiles doesn’t know how to deal with the heavy weight in his chest without ignoring it completely, so that’s what he does. He pushes and pushes until the problem eventually goes away, and then when it comes back, he’ll just repeat the process.  
  
It’s worked out okay for him so far.  
  
“I wish I could make some witty remark about how much everything sucks and maybe relate it to someone like Einstein, because that’s highly possible  _ anyway _ ,” he says, and ends up being sarcastic without really meaning to. It does nothing to elevate the pain in his chest like it usually does, and instead, Stiles thinks it probably only makes it worse. “But I can’t, not right now, and Derek, so help me if you laugh at me, I will tear your little werewolf ass apart, incredibly powerful being or not.”  
  
Derek blinks at his little speech, but he doesn’t look surprised, just, taken aback, like he hadn’t expected so much out of him. He’s not really surprised, that’s all that really happens, anyway. Stiles is never good enough for anything, and apparently, having feelings that aren’t related to his amazing sense of humor fits in that category pretty well.  
  
He’s not sure  _ when _ his life became such an epic failure, but he’s sure if he thought about it hard enough–which he seriously doesn’t want to do–he would probably figure out  _ why _ .  
  
And he would probably be able to connect that with his mom’s death.  
  
There’s no one that could understand that more than Derek, really. But the fear of pain and rejection, or even worse,  pity , squashes all of his instincts that tell him that Derek, despite how much Stiles hated him at first, might actually be the one who understands  him .  
  
“Stiles,” Derek says, and then clucks his tongue. “I would never laugh at you.”  
  
He doesn’t know why, but he almost believes him.  
  
“I just, you know–” Stiles cuts himself off, takes a breath, opens and closes his mouth a few more times, before saying, “Do you know what it’s like, to be the best friend of someone who went from someone who was  _ still _ socially above me on the ladder of high school cliques even though he plays  _ WoW _ at night with these people he met online in Virginia, on  _ RPG _ level. RPG level, Derek, that’s like LARPing. Do you know what it’s like to simultaneously hate and love your best friend for having a life outside of you and then you feel like an absolute dick afterward because your best friend getting the girl of his dreams shouldn’t make you angry–”  
  
Derek cuts him off, his expression bleak. If Stiles’ chest wasn’t too busy exploding, he probably would have found it comical. “Scott is co-dependent on Allison, Stiles, this is not a normal case.”  
  
Stiles  laughs at that, at the fact that Derek, of all people, is manning up and is trying to  comfort  him. When he’s lucky if his best friend even has the state of mind to save him a seat in Chemistry anymore.  
  
“I’m just tired, Derek,” he mutters, so soft and so gentle that he’s not even sure it’s himself speaking anymore. “I hate being second best to everyone, I hate being the defenseless, little sarcastic brat that is more burden than help on half–”  
  
Derek looks seriously  angry now, like the fact that Stiles is finally telling the truth instead of ignoring it like everyone else does pisses him off. Maybe it’s because Derek isn’t the one telling him so, but the look kind of frightens him, his bright red eyes shining in fury.  
  
Stiles realizes belatedly that it’s not at  him,  but rather at his words. It’s not new, it’s kind of like Stiles’ ultimate goal in life is to piss Derek off  without getting his head cut off in the process. It’s a trying process.   
  
“Don’t  _say_ that,” Derek hisses, fiercely, and suddenly Derek is right in front of him, and he’s not exactly wolfed out but he’s not exactly  not either. “You aren’t a burden. I don’t think you realize how much you help us.”  
  
Stiles snorts, making sure to hold his ground in the face of Derek’s anger. “The only help I am is how much I trip over air in order to distract the bad guys from tearing you guys apart.”  
  
Derek growls deep and angry in his throat, throwing his hand behind Stiles’ neck, and for a brief moment Stiles almost thinks he’s going to pull a whammy on him. Like he did on Jackson.   
  
Derek shoves him away almost as soon as the thought crosses his mind.  
  
“Stiles,” Derek says, slowly, willing the younger boy to listen to him. “I would  _never_ hurt you,” he says this, with so much emotion and honesty in his voice that Stiles almost stumbles in his anger. “Not like that, not like what you’re  thinking .”  
  
“You can hear what I’m  thinking ?”  
  
Derek actually looks embarrassed at this. “I don’t have to read minds in order to hear what’s going through your head, Stiles.”  
  
“Creep,” Stiles tries, weakly.  
  
Derek makes a noise in his throat, somewhere caught between a choked off half-chuckle and a hiss. “S’not like it’s not hard to notice when you know what you’re looking for.”  
  
Stiles shrugs it off, and wishes he had some Adderall on him, because that would probably make him feel better and not like his chest is about to explode, spewing his guts all over Derek in the most unsexy way possible–not that it’s particularly sexy anyway, but it might not be such a bad thing to Derek, with him being and werewolf and all. He might actually like it, though, Stiles holds onto the bitter hope that Derek might actually  feel something besides relief when he sees Stiles laying in pieces on the ground.  
  
There are fingers on his cheek, suddenly, tender and not at all like the harsh, scolding touches Stiles usually gets–like that peculiarly badass one that had happened after they’d run into some Vampires in the next town over, when Stiles had, successfully, almost gotten his throat ripped out. Derek had been even harder to handle than usual.  
  
Despite himself–and later, Stiles will say that it was because he was vulnerable and Derek had laid some kind of werewolf superpower that made him act stupider than usual–he leant into the touch, because it felt  good to be touched and not to be the one doing the touching for once.  
  
“Do  _ not _ think that you are unimportant, Stiles,” Derek says, with such conviction that he doesn’t even know what to say.  
  
Stiles laughed. “Yeah, because I seriously have a marketable skill set compared to you, Jackson, Scott, and even Allison.”  
  
“You do,” Derek persists, eyes softer than they’ve been since Stiles has even got here.  
  
Stiles snorts. “Yeah, right,” he says, “If that were true than Scott would choose me over Allison, sometimes,” and he knows that he sounds petulant and young, but dammit, he  is young. He’s only seventeen, and he doesn’t know how to react to his best friend forgetting he exists, forgetting their Friday night rituals because he’s off being busy with a girl that has somehow nudged her way into his life and has become more important than even  _Stiles_.   
  
Maybe Derek won’t understand, because it’s been light years since he’s been this young, and even then he doesn’t think someone as attractive and set in stone as Derek could ever feel this low about anything.   
  
Derek’s eyes flared again, pushing Stiles roughly against the wall, so much so that it’s hard to, you know,  breathe. But there is something so honest and open in Derek’s gaze that it makes Stiles take a second glance, makes him think that he might not just be saying this for Stiles’ benefit–because when has he ever honestly done that anyway?  
  
“You have more marketable skill sets than any one of us,” assures Derek.  
  
Stiles laughs. “Now,  that’s a joke.”  
  
Derek looks even more angry, if possible, and while Stiles doesn’t think he would be stupid enough to shift in front of a innocent human being like himself, Derek’s full of surprises. And he’s helpless to it, helpless to everything, and the situation scares him less than it probably should.  
  
“You honestly believe that,” he whispers, “You honestly believe that you aren’t anything special.”  
  
Stiles shrugs like it all means nothing, belying the whirlwind of emotions inside that threaten to drown him completely. “Doesn’t everyone else?”  
  
Stiles  feels more than hears Derek’s fist crashing into the wall right by his head, the walls around them trembling in tension.  
  
“I don’t,” he says, and there’s no hint of a lie in his voice.  
  
Stiles doesn’t believe him for one second, but he’s tired of Derek lying to him to make him feel better about himself. He’s just so tired that sleeping off the rest of his life almost always sounds better than actually  _ living _ it.  
  
Stiles knows he’s probably being a bit melodramatic here, but he’s always the responsible one, is always the one with the plan–even if there’s no doubt it’s going to fail–and he thinks he owes it to himself to have this at least once. He doesn’t think that Derek will blame him, or laugh at him, because he hasn’t done that yet and Stiles would like to have faith in him.   
  
“I’m tired, Derek,” Stiles repeats, “I’m tired of people looking at me and seeing Geek Overlord that has the insanely athletically talented best friend with the gorgeous girlfriend, and not seeing  me .” And really, letting out this much emotion is probably a very bad thing, but Stiles has always had a habit of doing very bad things because they keep him from focusing on how lonely he really is.  
  
He can deal with Scott ditching him for Allison, and he can deal with his mom’s death and how she’s never going to be there, and he can deal with his dad working double shifts in order to even keep  their house , but what he can’t deal with is actually acknowledging the fact that he’s alone. While he has his dad, and he has Scott, and deep down, buried somewhere, he knows he still has his mom, too, they’re not  _his_. He doesn’t have anyone to call  _ his _ .  
  
It hurts more than he admits most days.  
  
Derek is vibrating with energy in front of him, and Stiles is almost certain that he’ll shift, consequences and Stiles’ head on a silver platter be damned, and there’s that original sense of fear coursing through him, adrenaline rushing through his veins as he, once again, acknowledges the fact that Derek can kill him with a single swipe of his hand–paw thing.   
  
“I can’t believe this,” is all Derek says, teeth clenced, but Stiles doesn’t care. He really doesn’t, he doesn’t need Derek to tell him anything in the first place–though maybe he did, maybe he has been hearing what he wants and he’s just not been listening, which isn’t really a first.  
  
He rarely listens to Derek regardless.  
  
“It’s just – how I feel,” Stiles says, voice breaking on the last syllable because he’s pretty sure arms are going around him, and he’s  also pretty sure that this is a werewolf version of a  hug .  
  
“What–” Stiles cuts himself off, “What are you doing?” He tries again, voice scratchy against his throat.  
  
Derek sighs into Stiles’ hair–or where his hair would be if he hadn’t shaved it all off in the beginning of the summer. Summers, in California, in case you were wondering, suck  ass .  
  
“Shut up,” Derek says, and then he lets go of that last bit of puppy pride he holds onto so firmly, and Stiles melts into it, too, because after all of the bullshit with Scott and his mom and just, everything that’s been happening lately, Derek is the first one that’s offered to hug him.  
  
And he’s the last one Stiles really expected.  
  
Stiles is starting to get the impression that Derek deserves more credit.  
  
“Stiles,” Derek says.  
  
Stiles looks up, and expects something, anything, and suddenly there are lips on his and he doesn’t know what to do–this has never  happened  before–so he flails all over the place because that’s one of the things he’s actually good at. There’s no pressure from Derek’s side of the kiss, almost like he’s letting Stiles have his extremely terrifying gay crisis, and his flailing fit, probably because he knows that he needs it. Stiles hasn’t let himself think of it much–probably because if he looks, it’s kind of hard to notice–but Derek has always been good at deciphering what exactly Stiles needs.  
  
He’s always took it for granted because he’s never really  known  it was there.   
  
Stiles has never let himself think about it much, how attractive Derek truly is, how his eyes  always shine so brightly, whether he’s wolfed out or not. It kind of surrounds Stiles in the most all-encompassing way when he lets it. He thinks that’s the kind of thing that might get him in trouble.  
  
But apparently, it’s the fun kind of trouble.  
  
Eventually, he presses hesitantly back, and that’s all the encouragement Derek needs. He pushes and takes but it’s so warm and receptive that Stiles honestly doesn’t know who’s controlling the kiss and who’s receiving it, but it feels nice. Almost a little strange, too, but it’s his first kiss so strangeness be damned. He likes this, he realizes, likes the feeling of lips on his and that might just be because they’re Derek’s, but he supposes that’s not so bad, either.  
  
He pulls away eventually, not because he necessarily wants to but because the rational part of him is screaming at him that they need to talk this over. Friends don’t kiss other friends without there being something  behind it. Well at least that’s what Stiles thinks; it’s not like he has a lot of experience here, either.   
  
“What was that for?” Stiles asks, because he’s an idiot when he’s nervous, and Derek has just always made him incredibly nervous. Which, is probably why Derek looks like he’s about to rip out Stiles’ throat and hang it as the new wall decoration for his bedroom almost all of the time.  
  
He doesn’t think that’s so much of a bad idea right now.  
  
But he’s also pretty sure he’s high on the hormones running through him, too.  
  
Anything is better than staring at Derek, waiting for him to answer. There’s the fear of rejection that’s crawling its way up Stiles’ throat, and if he lets it become strong enough, it’ll probably make him run from this entire situation all together. It’s not like this is very far up on his ‘conversations to have’ list, but, nothing involving Derek and the possibility of pain–physical or emotional–really is.   
  
“Don’t make me say it,” Derek warns, a growl-groan thing stuck in his throat, and Stiles almost does a mental fist-pump at how emotionally stilted they both are. Perfection at its finest, obviously. “I swear to god, I will rip out your throat if you make me say it.”  
  
Stiles grins at him, bad mood not entirely forgotten, but pushed to the side. He’s really good at that, actually.   
  
For some reason, he thinks Derek might be able to make it disappear completely just by existing in that stupidly adorable way of his.  
  
“Okay,” Stiles says. He’s sure he could think of a thousand witty remarks, but for the second time that night, he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t feel like he needs to, with Derek being a special Alpha, Professor X mind reader, and all.  
  
“Okay?”  
  
Stiles nods. “Yeah,” he whispers, but he’s pretty sure it’s lost somewhere between the first kiss and the next.


End file.
